Break the Sky
by calamitybreak
Summary: This is not a love story. Most importantly, this is not a love story about pirates. Based around Cosmo Jarvis' "Gay Pirates" .


Sherlock pants, his lips parted and hands pressed flat against the deck. The whip cracks the air above him before it lashes against his back, stinging and biting deep into his skin. He chokes back a sob, hands curling into fists and eyes clenched shut.

"Seven," the man above him counts.

"Eight was the deal, wasn't it, Holmes? Right, Merton, one more."

"Yes sir."

The last blow falls upon his back and he grits his teeth through it. Merton crouches down beside him, grabs him by his hair and pulls his head back. "That's the last one, Holmes. Learned your lesson yet?"

He doesn't wait for an answer before shoving Sherlock's face down into the deck. He stands up, laughing, and shoos the crowds away.

Sherlock waits a few seconds before picking himself up and sitting back on his knees. His skin stretches and pulls taught and he can feel the welts throbbing, bleeding out over his back. He carefully catalogues each and every slash in his mind's eye before deeming it nothing worth worrying about too much. Even still, it doesn't make the pain any less real. He breathes in slowly and flexes his fingers before standing up then grimaces, wiping flecks of blood off his nose.

By now the rest of the crew have filtered away, either bored of the spectacle or very pointedly looking away from him.

Except for one.

"You shouldn't be here," he says, watching John's approaching figure warily.

"_You_ shouldn't have spat in Merton's face," John retorts, bringing a wet cloth up to Sherlock's back. Sherlock hisses and ducks away instinctively, only relaxing when John rests a hand on his shoulder.

"They were hurting you," he replies.

"I'm a big boy, Sherlock," John sighs, methodically cleaning his back as best he can. He can't do anything about the torn skin; Gruner would hardly let him anywhere near medical supplies on a good day, let alone for Sherlock. He makes do with wiping the blood away as best he can. "I can take it."

Sherlock growls, spinning around to face him. "I can't. John, I can't stand the thought of any of these brutes laying a hand on you. It makes me want to be violently sick all over their precious boots."

John laughs. "And in their hammocks too, I suppose."

"I'm serious, John."

John frowns, a tiny little thing tugging down on the corner of his mouth. "I know. Sherlock, I know, but you can't keep doing this to me."

Sherlock looks at him, really looks. There are signs that he's been biting at his lower lip, and small sections of skin that have come away entirely. His eyes are deep, hollow, and the bags underneath them pronounced. The skin on his right cheek is rough, grazed, and red; nothing too vicious, but someone had evidently decided to introduce John's cheek to a harsh surface, possibly the deck, more likely a cabin wall.

They're tiny things, tiny details that Sherlock can't help but catalogue, can't help how his blood boils over at the sight of every little thing. His own wounds for a moment forgotten, it takes all of Sherlock's self-restraint not to pull the man in his arms there and then.

Instead he gives a casual little shrug of the shoulders. "Doing what?" he says.

John barks a laugh, more a natural response than anything else. "Doing- you know what!" He throws his arms up into the air and shuffles his feet. "Throwing yourself into the line of fire for- for what, exactly? To protect me?"

Sherlock gives him a piercing stare, but John looks right back. "How egotistical of you to think I'm doing it for you," he says, and suddenly the wounds _sting_. He doesn't bother looking for a good, logical explanation, because he knows there isn't one.

John frowns and huffs. "Oh, so you're not, then? You're not taking the blame for my mishaps in order to look out for me, you're- doing it because you want to? Because you think it's funny? 'Oh, it's a sack of laughs, let's get myself whipped today!' Do you like letting me worry?"

Sherlock looks away, then. He briefly considers putting his shirt back on but there's nothing left of it, just tatters and strips of fabric from where they ripped it off his shoulders. He kneels and picks it up anyway. Better not to give them more reason to hate him. Then he says, in a quieter voice, "No, John. I'm doing it to protect myself."

"That doesn't make any sense at all!" John exclaims.

Sherlock fixes him with a long, steady look, then walks away. He tilts his head ever so slightly, the only indication for John to follow but the man catches it anyway and trots along after him.

A few minutes, Sherlock figures. They have a few minutes - ten at most - before Merton realises they're not at their respective posts and comes looking for him. That's all he needs, more than enough, more than he'll be able to salvage for the next week, most likely.

He leads them back to their sleeping quarters - or one of two, in any case. John sits him down and immediately sets to work on his back again, taking the tatters of Sherlock's shirt and wrapping them around his chest. He ties them tight, hardly a substitute for anything sterile but it'd have to do for now.

Sherlock turns to face him when he's done and lays a hand on his cheek. "John," he says simply then leans forward, centimetres away from John's lips. "I would have been better off without you."

John laughs. "Probably. Hope you're not expecting an apology," he whispers back, then kisses him.

Their lips slide together, nothing but chaste but it's perfect and _god_, how he's missed this. They don't have the time, though, and Sherlock can feel every passing second.

He breaks away, eyes lingering for just a second before grabbing a nearby shirt - doesn't matter whose, they're all the same anyway - and saying, "Wait a minute before following me out."

John nods and watches Sherlock leave. Then he huffs, waits a minute, and follows.

* * *

Sherlock lives for the tiny glances, for the way their whispers carry through the thin wall separating their sleeping quarters. His eyes never linger, hands never press longer than a second for fear of retribution - but it's not himself that he's worried for. He would take it all, the catcalls and the lashes and the piss all over his shoes, as long as they left John alone.

Good, strong John he's forced to ignore whenever their paths cross. John, whose presence he is so finely attuned to that he doesn't have to see him to know that he's there. John, who is the only reason he doesn't throw himself overboard and keeps slogging through the dead-end work.

John, who is the reason he bites his tongue and keeps silent whenever they push him to the ground, grab his hair and pull his head back, shucking their pants with a manic laugh. He doesn't dare say a word because he knows that if he doesn't shut up and take it, they'd do it to John. And they'd make it much, much worse.

He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he ever let that happen.

He'd never told John about it, but that night, when the rest of the crew's snoring loud enough to disturb an elephant, John slides in next to him and entwines their hands together. He feels the rub of his thumb along his hand, feels John's lips against his forehead, and he could swear John knew anyway.

Sherlock's eyes slide shut and he presses his face into the crook of John's neck. "I promise you, I'll get us out of here," he whispers into his skin.

He feels John's hand on the back of his head, running through his hair. "I know," he whispers back. Because it means more than "I love you" ever could, because it means that John understands Sherlock's mind and Sherlock's heart and, more than anything, he understands how much it _hurts_.

John isn't a coward. He isn't weak and he isn't fragile but he understands the effect he has on Sherlock, and that makes him infinitely more precious than anything Gruner's crew could pillage.

John doesn't want to let Sherlock take his punishments, not at first, despite all of his explanations. "The body doesn't matter, John- _my_ body doesn't matter. I don't need it in the end; I only need my mind, and they can't touch that. You, though- the thought of them hurting you drops a white cloud over my mind and I can't _think_. I can't stand that."

"So basically," John laughs, "you're being a selfish bastard."

Sherlock grins. "Your phrasing is incredibly pedestrian of you, but something like that, yes."

The conversation halts as crew members pass by; it's Merton and a few of his other lackeys. John ducks his head but Sherlock scowls, even when Merton kicks the back of his knee when he passes, forcing Sherlock to buckle and fall.

Sherlock picks himself up, waving John away when he tries to come near. Instead he calls out to the group as they retreat. "I see that despite your numerous threats to John and I you, like much of the rest of the human race, have that hypocritical tendency to go back on what you say."

Merton freezes where he walks, turns slowly to face him. He lets out a laugh that's close to sounding angry. "What was that, Holmes?"

"Oh, I'm sure you don't see it that way," Sherlock continues, goading him on. "A little bit of assistance masturbating, maybe a quick fuck here and there - none of it's really gay as long as it's just sex and you're still on top. Isn't that right?"

Merton's face had gotten steadily redder as Sherlock continued and now that he's stopped he surges forward, fist raised, for all intents and purposes ready to deck Sherlock.

Sherlock ducks aside easily, hitting him around the head with the mop he'd been using the clean the deck. Merton lands on his stomach with a grunt and Sherlock holds him there by pushing the handle of the mop in between his shoulder blades.

"Ah, that's not all though, is it? You've taken it once, haven't you? Who was it with? Lowenstein? I bet it was. Oh, no! Apparently not! Bennet? Really, Merton. Of all the men on board, you decided to go to bed with Bennet?"

By now Merton is absolutely lvid, desperate to either punch Sherlock or shut him up or, most likely, both. Sherlock eases the mop off him and Merton jumps up, watching Sherlock warily. "You shut your whore mouth right now. I'm nothing compared the man of a million cocks, god, I can't _stand_ you."

Sherlock smirks. "Which is why you find yourself so often floored by my stunning charm and wit, I'm sure."

Merton lunges forward but Sherlock evades him just as easily as before, landing a few sharp jabs at Merton's pressure points as he passes.

"Sherlock, stop," John warns him as Merton picks himself up again.

Sherlock doesn't listen and neither does Merton.

"God, I don't know how we ever let you poofs on board," Merton says, his face twisted into a disgusted grimace.

"And I have yet to come up with a reason they'd let anyone with less than two brain cells on board for any reason other than raw muscle," Sherlock counters with a gleeful smirk. "And even that's a little bit wanting."

If he weren't angry before, he certainly is now. He's aiming for Sherlock again, and John has finally had enough of it. He intervenes with his mop, jabbing Merton in the stomach with the handle and pointing the other end at Sherlock.

"Both of you, calm down and fuck off somewhere else. This isn't a pissing contest," he growls, jabbing them both with their respective ends when they try to resist. "I'm serious," he continues. "I will run this through your eye if you don't back off."

Sherlock watches John carefully and the look the man gives him leaves no room for argument. He purses his lips and takes a step back. "I will be the bigger man then, shall I?"

John snorts in disbelief, but it seems to have done the trick. Merton backs away with a snarl. "You're fucking dead, Holmes. You hear me?" is all he says before, as John so eloquently put it, fucking off.

Despite the tension still hanging in the air, John sighs in relief. "Thank god," he says, throwing Sherlock a grin. "That could've gotten ugly."

Sherlock scoffs but bends down to pick up his mop anyway. "Bit reckless, wasn't it? Didn't take you as the self destructive type."

John rolls his eyes. "Pot. Kettle. Black. Now shut up and mop. I think Merton got a bit of blood on the deck."

John pretends not to see Sherlock's satisfied smirk as he mops it up.

* * *

Sherlock's put on the night shift for the next week, though he's not entirely sure whether it's a punishment or a warning. It doesn't really matter in the end, but it's a nuisance.

Even so, nothing ever happens during the night shift. Every now and then they might spot a ship in the distance, but it's always long gone by the time he calls for the captain.

It's three hours in and he's watching the stars reflected in the ocean when he hears a shuffling noise that alerts him to a person behind him.

"John," he says, because of course it's him. He doesn't need to be a genius to know that, although he'd hardly deny that it helped.

"Watching the stars?" he asks, coming to stand next to him. "Not like you. Thought you didn't care about all that?"

Sherlock hums. "Mm, well, I may not care about alignments or any of that nonsense, but that doesn't mean I can't appreciate them for what the are." He faces John and the first thing he notices is the streak of blood across the side of his head. He frowns, rubbing the streak of blood away with his thumb.

John flinches, then relaxes into Sherlock's hand. "I know what you're thinking," he says, watching his face carefully. "It's nothing. A few of them get restless when they sleep, that's all."

"And kick you in the head with the heel of their foot, yes, I've noticed." He pulls away and stares at the blood on his hand. "Unfortunately, the angle and position in which they've managed to injure you is hardly something you could accidentally do, let alone in your sleep. They positioned themselves like that to purposefully hurt you. Even more than that-"

John put his hand over Sherlock's mouth, effectively shutting him up. "It was an accident," John stresses. "Nothing worth getting upset over."

Sherlock's tongue darts out to brush against John's palm and the man laughs, pulling away.

"None of that, now," John teases.

Sherlock just smirks and crowds in closer, taking John's hand and laying a kiss on his knuckles. "How about now?"

John's breath hitches and he sets his other hand on Sherlock's waist. "I… may be a tad more amenable."

Sherlock pushes forward and shifts them slightly so that he's leaning over John, pushing him against the railing around the deck. His free hand mirrors John's and rests on his hip, fingers slipping under his shirt to rub at his skin. "And now? Have I changed your mind yet?"

John shivers at the touch, feeling his heart begin to race faster, and a part of him is _very_ interested in what's happening. He hooks his thumb over the waistband of Sherlock's trousers and pulls him closer. "Would you like to find out?" he asks, voice low and hardly much more than a growl.

"Excellent," Sherlock says with a grin, then ducks down to kiss him.

The kiss is hard, bruising, and with Sherlock bending him he's almost half over the railing. The small corner of his mind that should have been worried about tipping into the ocean blanks out when Sherlock grinds against him and he feels their rapidly hardening erections pressing together through the fabric.

John moans against Sherlock's lips, his now free hand reaching up to tangle in Sherlock's hair and pull him closer.

Sherlock mumbles back appreciatively, then ducks his head and peppers kisses down John's neck. One hand slides up underneath John's shirt, the other slipping between them to palm at his crotch over his trousers. John bucks up into his hand, moaning as Sherlock curls his fingers and fondles him through the fabric.

John's head tips back and his hand slips down from Sherlock's hair to grab on to the back of his shirt and tug at it impatiently. Sherlock takes the hint, pushing his hand under John's pants to wrap around his cock.

"Christ," John breathes out with a shudder. Sherlock grins, twisting his hand _just_ so and John has to bite his lip to muffle his cry.

They continue like that for a moment before John's hand reaches down for Sherlock's crotch, but Sherlock bats it away.

"What-?" John goes to ask, but Sherlock cuts his off with a kiss. Then the next thing he knows, Sherlock is sinking to his knees and John realises exactly what's going to happen.

He barely manages to choke out a "_Sherlock_" before a tongue darts across the tip of his cock and he moans, biting down on his fist to stifle his noises.

Sherlock's eyes flicker up and connect with John's and he grins, then takes as much of John in his mouth as he can. John all but lets out a broken cry, one hand holding on desperately to the railing behind him, the other resting on top of Sherlock's head. Pleasure courses through him; it's been long, far too long, and he doesn't know how much of Sherlock's mouth he can take.

"God- you're _wicked_, you know that?" John says in between breaths, and Sherlock smiles at the compliment - as much as he can, in any case. He wraps his hand around the length of penis he can't fit in his mouth, stroking in time to his head bobbing up and down.

John's hand curls into Sherlock's hair, and that's when his foot shuffles forward to press down on Sherlock's still clothed erection. Sherlock lets out an appreciative moan, sending vibrations through John's cock, and John bucks forward, curling over Sherlock, feeling the pleasure crashing over him.

He can feel his orgasm coming to a crescendo and he tries to warn Sherlock, tries tugging at his hair and pushing at his forehead but Sherlock doesn't relent, just hollows his cheeks and _sucks_, tongue roaming over the skin of his erection.

John lets out a long groan, breath stuttering as Sherlock takes him further into his mouth. He stops trying to force Sherlock off, instead pushing his head down as far as it'll go and the combination of heat and suction has him coming hard and fast. He gasps and curls forward, feeling Sherlock's hair tickle his stomach.

Sherlock licks him through his orgasm, only pulling off once John starts to slide down and eventually ends up sitting against the railing. He spits John's come out on to his hand, grimacing at the taste.

"Ah," John says. "Sorry about that, I didn't- Well."

Sherlock doesn't reply, just pushes past his pants and takes his cock in his hand, using John's come as a kind of impromptu lubricant.

John sees him doing that and shuffles forward. "Wait, let me-"

He doesn't get the chance to finish because Sherlock surges forward, trousers hanging half off his thighs and all. Sherlock turns him around with one hand, leading his arms forward to hold on to the rails and then loops around his waist, pulling him back.

It's when Sherlock's pulling his trousers off to sit around his knees that John pipes up. "Er, just out of curiosity, are you… Well, are you going to-"

"Penetrate you?" Sherlock finishes for him, taking his shirt off and folding it up, placing it underneath John's knees. "No, not without a condom and some proper lubricant. Thankfully, that's not the only thing that counts as sex." Sherlock guides John's thighs together. "Squeeze tight for me, hmm?"

John complies eagerly, pressing his thighs together as hard as he can. He feels Sherlock's cock brush against them, still slightly slick with his come, and that alone makes him whimper. Then Sherlock pushes forward, slowly pressing his thighs apart, and they both moan.

The feel of John's thighs squeezing around his erection makes Sherlock tremble and he leans forward, leans over John to lathe kissing down his spine. John arches backwards at the sensation, letting out a low grumble.

Sherlock takes it long and steady at first, then his thrusts start to speed up, jolting John forward and almost pressing his face into the rails. Instead John drops his head, seeing Sherlock's cock disappear through his thighs, seeing his own now limp penis flapping back and forward. His face screws up, on the edge of laughter - that wasn't exactly something he got to see on a day to day basis - so he looks up again.

Sherlock's hands are digging into his hips now, erection pushing insistently through his thighs. He can feel his pattern begin to stutter, thrusts becoming more erratic and more eager. John can feel his orgasm on the eaves and squeezes his thighs as hard as he can.

Surprised by the sudden tightness, Sherlock gasps and comes hard, smearing John's thighs and getting it on the deck. He stretches over John for a few seconds, letting his orgasm overcome him, before pulling away and rolling over beside him.

John simply falls down where he is, his arms aching with the pressure of having to hold himself up. The come between his thighs is sticky and debauched there's a part of him that absolutely loves it. He breathes in slowly. "That was absolutely…"

"Amazing?" Sherlock supplies. "Brilliant? Mindblowing?"

"Ridiculous!" John finishes with a laugh. "We just had sex on the deck. That's ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. Gruner'd kill us if he found out."

Sherlock frowns at that and rolls over, attempting to shake off the post-coital bliss threatening to overtake him. He gets up, his legs still a little shaky but stable enough, and locates a bucket full of water nearby. Sitting inside is a cloth of questionable hygiene but he wipes himself down anyway and throws it to John to do the same. "Clean yourself up. He still might."

John's still sluggish but he sits up and does so. "No after-sex cuddling, then. 'Course not, we're on the deck for god's sake." He barks out another laugh and pulls his trousers up.

Sherlock harrumphs and crosses his arms, already dressed. "We'll see how funny it is when someone finds us like this."

And of course, curse his luck, that's when Sylvius - Merton's biggest snitch - rounds the corner. It doesn't even take him a second to connect the dots, the scent of sex hanging over the scent of the sea, and he spins around without a word to them and runs off, otherwise shouting his head off.

Sherlock curses and chases after him, leaving John to fumble on the rest of his clothes before following. He catches up just as Sylvius reaches Gruner's sleeping quarters and tackles him to the ground, holding him down with a knee on the small of his back, but it's too late. Sylvius's shouts had already roused the captain who's shouldered his way into the night outside.

It's hardly difficult to deduce what the two of them had been up to, especially as John catches up to them, his hair and clothes incredibly dishevelled. Sherlock backs off Sylvius immediately, running towards John and spinning him around. "Move, move, move," he whispers urgently, pushing him to start.

They've barely taken a few steps before Gruner's bearing down on them. He grabs the back of Sherlock's shirt and throws him to the ground, holds him there with a foot on his stomach. Sherlock feels the wind leave him and he groans, desperately looking over at John, begging him to run.

John, of course, does exactly the opposite, instead charging forward and Sherlock can tell he intends to run Gruner down. He can tell just as easily that it's useless; Gruner is at least a head taller that John and a lot stronger. Not only that but he's nimble, as evidenced when he steps aside John, grabs his arm and twists it behind his back.

"Should've taken care of you fags ages ago," he spits, simultaneously grinding down harder on Sherlock's stomach and twisting John's arm up higher. They both grunt in pain, Sherlock finding it increasingly difficult to breath.

The noise has started to attract the rest of the crew, most of all Merton who rushes forward. He hands Gruner a length of rope which he uses to lash John's hands together. Merton and Sylvius both lean down and truss Sherlock up, handling him none too lightly.

"That's it, Holmes. We've been amee-nable up to now, but I won't have you spreading your _disease_," he spits the word onto the deck, "Around my crew."

They're all up by now, someone having rung the waking bell. Most of them are watching, curious, some leering gleefully, and a couple of them look away.

"Go on, then," Sherlock says challengingly, drawing himself up to his full height and squaring his shoulders back. "Whip us, beat the homo out of us, whatever it takes to exterminate the disease, right?"

Gruner's grin becomes terrifying. "Oh yes, Holmes, whatever it takes. Unfortunately, this is a lot more than a few whips."

Sherlock feels as though ice has been dumped through his veins and he clenches his jaw, but it's John's whimper that really gets to him.

"I think it's time for the plank. Don't you?"

If he's completely honest with himself, he'd been preparing for the plank for a long time, now. Before John, even. So he doesn't let fear course through him, doesn't let uncertainty grab him, just keeps himself indignant.

He glances over at John and John is staring at him, the same hard lines in his jaw, but the expression on his face is resigned. He's angry, a bit, and maybe a very small part of him is scared, but most of him understands, has understood for a long time that this was always going to be how it ended.

"Personally, I think it's time for you to violently shove a pineapple up your protein chute," Sherlock says matter-of-factly which causes John - and a fair few of the crew - to snigger quietly.

Gruner's eyes flash with anger and he backhands Sherlock, sending him sprawling to the ground again. He motions for Merton and Sylvius to pick him up and they do, none so gently. He nods at another to take John and leads the procession in a slow march through the crew; Gruner, then John, then Sherlock.

There are catcalls as they're passed through the crowd. People spit at him and Sherlock spits right back, only to earn himself a punch in the gut.

"Don't spit at those better than you, faggot," Merton says, shoving him forward by his hair.

He takes this for about half a minute before he throws his shoulder into the man next to him, toppling him off balance. He hooks his foot around the back of his knee and pulls sharply, throwing him completely off balance. He spins around Merton and shoves him with his foot in Sylvius' direction. The two men fall to the ground together, momentarily stunned by Sherlock's quick movements, and he's already dashing away before they have time to act.

The man flanking John is big - big and dumb. Sherlock kicks the backs of his knee and, when the man falls to the ground with a cry of surprise, kicks him hard in the head. Then he slides around in front of John to stop him walking. It's taken all of about five seconds for this, and John looks up in surprise.

Sherlock sighs, resting his forehead against John's, and everything slows down for a moment. He slides his eyes shut and breaths in deep, breathes in _John_ and lets the scent fill his head, infiltrating his thoughts. "I love you, John Watson."

John smiles, bumping his head forward to brush their noses together. "I know," he replies. "And I suppose, if this is it-"

Gruner's hand hooks around Sherlock's wrists and hauls him back away from John, throwing him roughly onto the deck. Sherlock looks up just in time to see Merton kicking John forward towards the plank before Gruner hauls him back up by his armpit.

_What was the point_, he can't help but think bitterly. Demonstration of Alpha Male dominance? He turns and sees a grin stretched across Gruner's face, an altogether unfortunate look, he observes. It pulls his face tight and shows off his rather large teeth, though he supposes Gruner thinks it's rather frightening. If anything it makes him look he had a rat surgically implanted into his face.

Gruner pulls Sherlock after John, standing them side by side in front of the plank. He jabs John in the back, forcing him up. "You first, me thinks."

John tries to turn, tries to look at Sherlock one last time, but Gruner won't let him, just jabs him in the back again.

"Any last words, Watson?" Gruner asks - or rather, taunts, with that same, hateful grin stretched over his face.

"I hope your mast snaps in half during a storm and impales you through the crotch," is all John says.

The man gives a little chuckle. "I'll be sure to let you know if it happens," he says, then with one almighty shove, he pushes John overboard.

Sherlock momentarily forgets to breathe when he hears John hits the water. He doesn't have any time to dwell on it, though, since Gruner forces him up immediately afterwards.

There is no ceremony, no taunting words for him like there were for John. Sherlock turns, hands still bound behind his back, and he opens his mouth to say something but Gruner kicks him hard in the stomach before he has the chance.

He barely manages to suck in a breath before he hits the water. It envelops him completely and he tries to kick, tries to keep himself afloat but it's harder without proper use of his hands.

He keeps his eyes open despite the salt water lapping at his face. "John?" he calls, only to suck in water and splutter. "John!" His head is barely above the surface, searching frantically for John, and he rolls on to his back to try keep himself afloat.

It's for nothing when a wave crashes over him and forces him underwater.

He can feel the panic settling in, wrapping a hand around his chest and squeezing tight. There's no use struggling at this point, he knows that much – oxygen deprivation will cause him to lose consciousness in approximately 50 seconds, less if he panics. In three minutes his brain cells will start dying, and clinical death could take anything up to ten minutes.

His brain supplies him with facts, figures, cold stark logic as a pathetic attempt to distract himself.

_Where's John?_ The thought drags itself violently into the front of his mind, makes his skin itch and burn with need.

Sherlock opens his eyes. He's ignored kicks and whips, he can ignore the saltwater rushing into his eyes. Instead he searches for John, but it's useless, useless - the water is dark and there are still bubbles everywhere and he can't see, can't think, _where_-

He thinks he feels John's hands closing around his wrist, feels John's body pressed up against him. He is absolutely sure that this- that right now they are sinking and dying and he is struggling against his bonds because he never meant for John to die alone.

He thinks he hears a whisper against his ear, _but that's impossible_, his brain reminds him. _But is it?_ The oxygen starvation is (quite literally) going to his head, making him delusional. He has less than half a minute left. _23 seconds_, his brain supplies helpfully.

He feels the phantom touch of lips against his own and despite all reason, despite his brain screaming at him to _kick up don't let go survive goddamn it_ he feels his body relax and he murmurs against those lips, seeks them out.

_I'm yours, you know._

His delusions supply a hand against his forehead, brushing his hair back.

_Yes,_ they murmur back. _I know._


End file.
